Lover of the Light
by elimaru
Summary: "Let's start," she finally says. "Okay? We can start." - Post-season 4. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and am in no way affiliated with Glee and its characters, writers, or Ryan Murphy.**

**A.N.: This was originally a multi-chapter fic that I started at the very beginning of season 4. Since then, school has kept me super busy; also, the story arc with Brochel and Brody himself took a much, er, _different_ direction than I anticipated. (*facepalm*)**  
**So, I've started rewriting this fic. It will probably around 5 chapters, give or take.**  
**Title and story inspired by "Lover of the Light" by Mumford & Sons.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_I know I tried, I was not stable  
Flawed by pride, I miss my sanguine eyes  
So hold my hands up  
Breathe in, breathe out._

* * *

"Finn, sweetie?" His mom knocks lightly on his bedroom door, and then pokes her head in. "The mail came."

He looks up from the stack of college information on his desk, his eyes zeroing in on the envelope in his mom's hand as she places it on the tabletop next to the rest of his papers.

He stares at the envelope for what feels like hours, willing himself to open it, but also never wanting to know what's inside, because one way lies everything he wants and the other lies a lifetime of working in the tire shop.

Finally, _finally_, he picks it up and breaks the seal, and suddenly it's like he's possessed, yanking out the letter, unfolding it, his eyes racing over the page...slowing...

He's still staring in disbelief at the words an hour later when his cell phone rings.

"Finn?" Rachel's breathless voice greets his ears.

"Rachel," he answers, his voice equally rushed.

"I got it," she says, her voice raised over the sounds of the city street in her background.

"..._You did?_"

She laughs, her joy vibrating through the crackling phone line and making his own racing heart beat doubly fast. "_Yes_, Finn, I got the part, I'm Fanny Brice!"

* * *

Finn crashes at their place for the week when he flies to New York to see New Directions at Nationals. The competition isn't until Friday, but Finn gets there on Monday, and it's Rachel who volunteers to pick him up at the airport.

"Hi," she greets him a little breathlessly, a smile tempting the corners of her lips when he gives her that familiar sideways grin. She tempers her excitement and presses her face deep into his chest when his arms engulf her at the terminal (and _god_, she'd missed that feeling).

"Hey," he murmurs, his hand pausing at the small of her back as they untangle themselves from one another, before he grabs the duffel bag he'd dropped upon hugging her and hoisting it back over his shoulder.

New Directions doesn't do very well, truthfully, and Finn is far more upset than he would ever admit to anyone. After all, he reasons over the dinner table later that evening at the apartment, "It's not _my _team anymore; it's Mr. Schue's." His voice tapers off, and Rachel watches the way he pushes his pasta back and forth for a few moments before resuming his rhythmic chewing in silence.

She hates this. Deep down, he's dying over it. Over everything: the team losing, the still-rocky patch between him and Mr. Schue, the fact that she can't just reach to her left and lace her fingers through his (though really, that's killing her more than it is him, she expects).

She talks to Santana about it later that evening when they're sprawled across the couch, the end credits of their third romcom of the night scrolling on the TV screen.

"For the love of god," Santana says, muting the TV. "You two—it's like you're Barbie dolls that secretly horny little girls have to undress and throw into a bed together—"

"_Santana!_"

"I'm just saying. I can tell you exactly what'll make Finny Bear feel better—"

"_Santana._"

Santana snickers and then sobers herself up, scooting closer to Rachel. "Have you even _talked _to him that much since he got here?"

Rachel picks at the fringe of her blanket. "We've had one or two pleasant conversations during his stay," she mumbles.

"Well _shit_, Rachel, are your legs really that tightly crossed since all your bullshit with Brody that you won't even have a decent talk with the guy who flew all the way up here just to 'defend your honor'?"

Rachel focuses on the piece of lint clinging to the cuff of her pink fluffy robe.

"Rachel, you owe him. Okay? A _real _conversation, not whatever half-assed attempt you two have made all week."

Rachel's face heats with shame, and she nods slowly. "Okay." Because Santana is right. She can't keep avoiding the man that dropped everything just to blacken Brody's eye for lying to her for so long. (Oh, god, it still _hurts_.)

Three hours later when she lies in bed, staring at the wall, she hears him shuffling down the hall and opening cupboards in the kitchen. Instead of pulling the covers even more tightly around her shoulders, she shrugs them off, rises from bed, and follows him.

He turns at the sound of her little feet pattering on the tile, and he can't help but smile at her just faintly, because even after all this time, after how much she's changed and he's changed and _they've _changed this year, she can still be so effortlessly _cute_—in her pink robe with her tiny toes peeking out from beneath her flannel pajama bottoms, her hair slightly rumpled from her pillow, her eyes…her _eyes_. They still make his heart beat in that funny, wonderful rhythm.

"Can't sleep?" she asks softly. He's starting to wonder just how closely she plans on approaching him, when she stops a few inches from him and hops onto the counter, her feet dangling over the edge.

"Nope." He shrugs and pulls a mug from the cupboard, offers it to her, and then takes another for himself when she nods. "I told myself I wouldn't get hooked on coffee. But here I am, two sleepless nights in a row."

"Finn," she murmurs when he tries to chuckle at his excuse. "It's not your fault New Directions lost. You know that, right?"

He sets the mugs on the counter heavily, hesitating for the slightest of moments before turning and pulling the fridge door open.

"Finn, you're upset. It's okay."

He finishes pouring milk into the second cup and sets the carton down a little bit more roughly than necessary, finally stilling himself altogether. She pushes off from the counter, takes the mugs, places them in the microwave, and then returns to her former spot. Slowly, carefully, she reaches forward to where he stands, her hands resting on his shoulders, drawing him just close enough.

"You know," she whispers, "you've always been so loyal. To everyone. Always. That's one of the reasons why I first fell for you."

His eyebrows knit together then, his head dropping. "Rachel, don't. Just…you don't need to bring any of that up right now."

"Then when _are _we going to talk about it?" Her fingers dig into his arms, the sensation somehow gentle yet stern against his skin. "I'm just as guilty of it as you are. But I'm _tired _of—" She stops short when her voice hitches. "I'm tired of pretending." That gets his attention, and when he raises his eyes she's already ducked her head to meet his gaze. "All these walls we've got up? Where we act like nothing matters anymore?" She shakes his shoulders gently. "I want to talk. I want to talk to _you_, and I want _you _to talk to me. About anything. _Everything_. I barely even know what's been going on with you for the last few months, and it's been driving me insane."

Just then the microwave beeps, and he backs away, pulls the mugs out, and passes one to her before turning and leaning back against the counter just beside her.

And then it all just kind of tumbles out—everything that's happened since the wedding, with Mr. Schuester getting pissed at him and Finn leaving New Directions and looking for colleges and how he feels like he's just kind of floating along in this weird continuum of dead ends and U-turns that lead him right back to where he started and how it's just so frustrating because he's still, after all this time, afraid that all he'll ever do is end up back in Lima, even if he _does _go to college, even if he _does _pursue teaching, "Even if I _do _end up—" and then it's his turn to stop short.

"Even if you do what?" she asks, and finally pushes herself hard enough to risk reaching over and lacing her fingers through his. Their skin meets and his hand immediately responds, curving around hers, and in spite of everything else he's just told her, she can't help but let her chest swell, because maybe this, _this_ is the only thing that's really been missing all along—the feeling of him beside her.

"Nothing," he finally murmurs, glancing down at their hands as though he just now realizes they're entwined, and he chances meeting her gaze and giving her a soft smile. And that smile is what makes Rachel just brave enough to set her now-empty mug aside and reach around and take his other hand, pulling him gently to face her.

"All that stuff Marley told you," she tells him in a hushed voice (she can just imagine Kurt and Santana pressing their ears against their bedroom doors, "about being a leader, and about Lima and Mr. Schuester not defining you—she was right. You have…you have _so much_ in you to give, Finn."

"I'm trying to figure it out," he insists, sliding his wrist from her hand to wrap his own fingers around hers. "I swear I am. It's just so _hard_ sometimes, when…" he trails off, and a million things left unspoken pass between them when he tightens his hands around hers and lets out a long, heavy breath he'd been holding.

She whispers, "I know. _I know._" And she does. She knows what it's like to try to find yourself when a part of yourself is somewhere else, when you know exactly where it is but can only wait and wonder if it will ever come back. (She's starting to think that maybe it could.)

She leans backward, hitting her head lightly against the cabinet door and laughing mirthlessly, squeezing her eyes closed. "God, this _entire year_…Finn…"

"I miss you so much, Rach."

Her eyes snap back open, and she's not sure whether it's the sound of her nickname on his lips or the way he's looking at her—all that _love_, still there, just for her—but suddenly she's crying and she just can't stop. He presses closer, his hands moving up her arms, goosebumps erupting along the path his skin makes over hers as he cradles her head and catches the tears on her cheeks with his thumbs, ignoring the ones escaping onto his own face.

"Can we just…_end _this, please?" Rachel murmurs as he presses his forehead against hers.

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?" he asks nervously.

"I mean…we've both been running around trying to figure everything out for ourselves, and…now we've _done _that part. I've got my show and you've got your career goals figured out. So can we just…stop being idiots and work on _this _again?" She taps his chest and then motions back and forth between them.

"You mean you want to get back together?"

She almost said yes, the word rising in her throat, but then she stops and thinks, _really _thinks, because this—her and Finn—has always been so much bigger than just a relationship, and "getting back together" is so much bigger than it sounds, so much less easy than it seems.

"Let's _start_," she finally says. "Okay? We can start. We're not the same people we were when we graduated from high school."

"I know," he whispers earnestly.

"Between all this stuff with Brody and my show this summer, and with you working on going to school and teaching, things are different. Very different."

"I know."

"It's not going to happen quickly."

"_I know_," he says, his smile growing a little each time she opens her mouth.

"And we haven't really got that much time to start, anyway." Her heart falters a little as soon as she realizes it. "What time are you flying back to Lima today?"

He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes falling to their hands.

"Finn?"

"I'm not."

His words come out so softly that she almost doesn't hear them, but then she blinks, her chest swelling again. "What?"

"I'm not flying back to Lima." He raises his eyes to her face again. His words start to come out in a quiet but excited rush. "I've been doing interviews and shadowing classes this whole week. I got into Fordham. They've got this five year teaching certification program, and I can't even _believe _I got in, but I did and Mom and Burt are helping move my stuff up here in the next few weeks, and—"

She kisses him once, quickly and firmly, before taking his face in her hands.

"You're staying?" Her words are more of an affirmation than a question, and he nods, his arms looping around her and pulling her into his chest. A thousand thoughts rush through her at once—how she wishes she could just kiss him until they both see stars; how easy and wonderful it is to still hold him and be held; how she's starting to feel the shell of herself, built up over the last year, just barely chip away.

She presses her freshly-tearstained cheek into his shoulder and breathes him in and thinks that maybe, eventually, they'll be okay again.

* * *

**TBC.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and am in no way affiliated with Glee and its characters, writers, or Ryan Murphy.**

**A.N.: Okay kiddos, here's chapter 2 to hold you (and myself) over for the next month...between 3 exams, a project, and then a week of final exams, this chick is going to be _busy_. :( The story is still up here in the old brain of mine, though!  
Enjoy!**

* * *

_In the middle of the night, __I may watch you go;__  
__There'll be no value in the strength __of walls that I'll have grown;__  
__There'll be no comfort in the shade __of the shadows thrown,__  
__But I'll be yours if you'll be mine._

_Stretch out my life, __and pick the seams out;__  
__Take what you like, b__ut close my ears and eyes;  
__Watch me crumble  
__Over and over._

* * *

June arrives, stifling and humid, and no army of electric fans can make up for the apartment's crappy AC. The heat clings to everything, and he spends most of his nights in his bed (a.k.a. the couch) staring at the ceiling, continuously re-aiming the table fan toward his body and wishing for a miraculous fast-forward to autumn.

Rachel was right: the recovery process—talking things out, filling in the gaps—does _not _happen quickly. In fact, it hardly "happens" at all. She's got rehearsals for Funny Girl almost every day of the week, and he's _thrilled _that she's got this show and this role, _really_. Like, she's nineteen and she's already starting a career.

He's also amazed by the fact that, had this happened a year ago, he would have been sitting in his room, feeling sorry that he wasn't as successful and driven as her; and now, he's getting ready to start school and work on things for himself for a change. For once, he's actually _happy _and _excited _and _proud_ of where he is in life, and where he's headed.

He takes comfort in that, because it reminds him of the fact that at least _some _things have changed for the better. He's not so sure he can always say the same thing for him and Rachel. He knows it's only because of what he did—what he knew was the right thing for both of them—but somehow he'd anticipated a different turnout. He'd expected, or at least hoped, that they might have been able to pick up right where they left off. Of course, the tether is still there. He can _feel_ it. He thinks (he hopes) she still feels it too. But sometimes it's startling and a little sad to realize that he doesn't feel like he can say some of the things he would have said a year ago, because whether he likes it or not, nothing is the same. Not that they've necessarily changed for the worse; but he wishes he could have been there to watch it change, watch _her_ change, instead of having to just dive in with this familiar yet somehow different Rachel.

Her rehearsals end late at night, and he always meets her outside the theater and makes the commute back home with her; because no matter how many times she smiles and blushes and tells him that he really doesn't have to, he refuses to let her travel alone in the city when it's dark. (Plus, she always concedes in the end, so he guesses she's fine with it.) By that time of night she's either chattering excitedly about the show, or she's exhausted and nods off on his shoulder on the subway, and he doesn't bother her with any serious talk because she's too cute to be disturbed.

(Even though he doesn't mind being able to appreciate again how much he adores her, there's almost never enough time for them to sit down and start to talk things out, which is all he _really_ wants most of the time.)

One week before her show opens, she comes storming out of the theater with _the_ _look _on her face that still scares him shitless; the one that says, point-blank, that she is _not _happy. She usually greets him with a hug and a light "Hi," but today she barely manages a "hello" and keeps walking when she reaches him, so that he has to spin around and catch up to her by a few steps.

He studies her on the subway while she sits beside him with her arms crossed tightly, her knee bouncing frantically, her eyes boring into the back of the seat opposite hers. She's not _angry_, per say; at least that much he can discern. But he's never known her to go this long without saying _something_, even when she's mad at _him_, and it's kind of throwing him off. Especially since he's almost certain she couldn't be mad at him, considering the fact that they haven't seen each other all day.

Finally, and probably against his better judgment, he decides to break the silence.

"…Rachel?"

"Yes, Finn?" Her voice is unnaturally even, but sharp.

He blinks, and then presses on carefully, "How was your day?"

She smiles mechanically. "It was _terrific_, Finn; why do you ask?"

Now he's kind of starting to really freak out, because he's pretty sure Rachel is clinically insane.

"You just seem…tense."

"What gives you _that_ impression?" She blinks, her frozen smile all the more unnerving.

He shrinks back into his seat. He'd almost forgotten _this _part of being with Rachel—the occasional meltdown, and the buildup to it—and he's kind of disappointed in himself, because he used to be able to read her so well. But then again, he's also a little hurt, because she used to actually _tell _him what was wrong, or at least let a clue slip…a complaint about her throat hurting, a worried frown while she would shuffle music pages hastily, _something_.

"Nothing," he finally mumbles. "Never mind."

When they get back to the apartment, Kurt is still out with Adam and Santana is still working her shift at the bar. Rachel lets her bag fall to the floor with a pronounced _thud_ and kicks her shoes off a little violently before collapsing onto the couch.

"Rachel, will you tell me what's wrong, please?"

"_Nothing _is wrong," she suddenly snaps, her voice already rising.

"Rachel, cut it out."

"_Nothing _is wrong!"

"Clearly you're upset about something, and I'm trying to _help you—_"

"Just leave it alone, leave _me _alone, _please_." She groans and buries her face in her hands.

"Fine; I mean, it's not like I should really expect you to talk to me about anything, anyway…"

Just like that, she's back on her feet and whirling to face him; and when they retell this story someday he will _swear_, with the look she gives him, he feels the flesh melting off of his face. "_WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, FINN HUDSON?_"

It all just kind of combusts, and there's lots of shouting and lots of words that neither of them can remember five minutes later, and she hurls a pillow at him from the living room and screams, "I _told you_, Finn, that I was going to be _busy _with rehearsals and the show, and you act like you thought I'd be able to just _drop everything _whenever, to talk about our _feelings_—"

"That's _bullshit_, Rachel! I just thought that you'd be able to talk to me_ sometime_, but I guess I just forgot that I—we—will _always _come in second to shows and performing, and you know what? That's _fine_!"

A long time ago he would have thought to shut his damn mouth when she gave him the look that she gives him now—her eyes wide, her lower lip quivering. But tonight he decides to keep shouting instead (_stupid, stupid, stupid_, he'll tell himself in about an hour).

"I _am_ happy for you, Rachel; I am happy that you are in this show and that you're getting all the success you deserve. I'm _so _happy for you, please believe me. And I came to New York so that I could focus on _my _stuff, too; but _we_ agreed that it was also to work on _us_. And since that show started rehearsing, you have _no time _for us. So what am I still doing here, Rachel? I could get a teaching degree at anywhere in the country, and here I am, still paying rent, still getting ready for Fordham, and still hoping that the woman I'm in love with will think I'm worth the time of day."

Her mouth falls just barely open.

"Tell me why I'm still here, Rachel."

When she blinks a few tears escape down both of her cheeks, and that's what finally gets him to _shut up_ long enough to realize that he's still an absolute idiot sometimes.

After a painful stretch of silence, she sniffs a few times, clears her throat, and says in a low voice, "If Kurt and Santana return, tell them that I am in my room and would like to be left alone."

The worst feeling in the world is the one he feels when she turns and breezes into the hallway, the one he feels when he finally hears her door shut . It's the feeling that he knows he should go after her, because that's what he would do if he were her boyfriend (and he knows that, at this point, he's still not); but he'd very much like to avoid causing any more damage tonight, so instead he flops onto the couch, covering his eyes with his arm.

He relays Rachel's message to Kurt and Santana and isn't any more informative than that, and all in all, the mood that has settled over the apartment by the wee hours of the morning is an awful one.

He decides around three a.m. that trying to sleep is worthless, so instead he stares at the clock because it's the only thing that he can stand to look at right now. His tuition forms and registration materials are scattered across the coffee table, and just glancing at them sends his blood pressure through the roof, and that's on top of the guilt and frustration and everything else cluttering his mind. Rachel is upset about _something_, and what he said sure as hell didn't help. (Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He's _so_ stupid.)

Finally, around three-thirty, he's just barely drifted into a fitful rest when he hears two tiny feet padding down the hall. He closes his eyes before she can make it to the living room, but they quickly flutter open again when he hears her sniffling quietly, her footsteps drawing closer to the couch.

"Finn, I'm _sorry_," she moans quietly, and he sits up and stretches out his arms, silently asking her to sit beside him—all forgiven for both of them, just like that.

"No, Rach, don't apologize," he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on her arms, hesitant to pull her into his chest because, to be honest, it's been so long since they've done this—argued, _really _argued—that he doesn't quite remember how to fix it. He's fallen out of practice. (She'll never say it, but she feels like she has, too.)

She inches a little closer, wiping her face on the sleeve of her robe and sniffing again. "It's just…" she trails off, her breath coming out as a shudder, and he shifts further down on the cushions so she has more room. "Rehearsal was just so_ bad _today, Finn. I'm _so_ not ready for this, and the show opens in a week and it has to be _perfect_, Finn, it just _has _to be perfect…"

He cups her cheek in one hand, brushes his thumb over the tear tracks there, whispering, "It _will _be perfect, Rach. It's gonna be perfect because it's _you_."

"That's just _it_, though, Finn!" Her voice goes up an octave and she presses her fists into her eyes. A string of thoughts come tumbling out of her mouth, like she's been bursting at the seams with them and now they're all fighting to get out first. "I'm _not _perfect, and I'm only nineteen, and every other person in that cast thinks I don't deserve it because I'm so young, and as selfish as it sounds I'm still not used to being somewhere where people don't acknowledge how hard I work, and the director was all over me today with my mistakes and my weak spots and it was just—it was _so bad_," she whimpers.

The last time he saw her as distraught as this was the night of her first NYADA audition. He feels all those emotions rushing back and hitting him square in the chest; and that's it, he can't take it anymore, so he pulls her onto his lap and cradles her against his chest, brushing circles over her shoulders and back, willing her breathing to slow. "No, you're perfect, baby," he says gently, the final word slipping out without him even thinking about it, and neither of them really minds the way it sounds, the way it floats into the air between them and stays there.

"I was so shitty about everything tonight," he whispers once she's calmed down a bit, and just finally _saying _it to her takes some of the load off of his chest. "God, Rach, I should have known better than to do that, especially tonight…"

"Yeah, well, I should have told you what was going on," she says, and then a small grin crosses her face. "But I'll admit that the look on your face in the subway was priceless."

Their soft chuckling fills the space, and he suddenly realizes that he can't remember the last time they were together like this—the easy laughter, the just-reconciled warmth in their touches and on their skin, the way she squeezes her eyes shut with a tired smile and nuzzles her forehead against his chest…

"Finn," she breathes, and just the tone of her voice tells him that, at least when it comes to this, they're on the same page—she's missed this just as much as he has.

"You should have told me how much it was bothering you," she murmurs after a pause. "I wanted to talk, too, but you never brought it up. God, we've _both _been beating around the bush, haven't we? I would have gladly shut up about the show if you'd told me when you wanted to talk about…our stuff," she says, the word falling off of her tongue uncertainly because she knows that neither of them really even knows a word that could adequately label everything that needs to be said between them. He chuckles at the quirky frown that crosses her face, and she shoves his shoulder. "You know what I mean."

He nods and pushes a lock of hair out of her face absentmindedly. "Yeah, I do." And she's right, of course. He was being a pushover. Reverting back to his old self. And isn't that one of the things he'd promised _himself _that he would work on? Not going back to his old self? (At least, not going back to the _bad_ parts of his old self.)

"But I _am_ scared about the other stuff too, Finn." The look on his face must register some confusion, because she takes a deep breath, hugging her arms to her chest before venturing on: "I mean, you…when you put me on that train and sent me to New York…you _hurt _me, Finn. You hurt me worse than I ever thought you could." Her voice starts to thicken again.

"I never wanted to," he whispers, and he feels like the weight of the world is crushing his chest.

"And that's what makes it so much worse, you know?" she says hoarsely. "The fact that I've always known, deep down, that you did it for the exactly right reasons, even though you also knew what it probably meant for us…it's just hard to even think about, and half the time I'm not even sure I know _how _to talk about how it made me feel. How it _still _makes me feel. Does that make sense?"

He nods slowly, and for the first time in a year, he feels like his body is starting to piece back together. The Rachel he's looking at, the one with the vulnerable, burning gaze—he remembers this one well. She's the same one who looked up at him beside his locker and told him he was better than the rest, with the utmost confidence in him. She's the same one who kissed him on a stage in front of hundreds of people even though she knew what it would cost them, cost their team. She's the same one who smiled up at him from the floor in front of his fireplace, the same one who said she'd marry him, she same one who he watched recede from his sight through the window of a train.

"I'm so, _so_ sorry, Rach." He really doesn't know what else he can say.

She shakes her head slowly, her lips barely parted, trying to conjure the right words. "I don't even know if I want you to apologize," she finally admits. "Because if you hadn't done all that, I'd be in Lima with you, and neither of us would be half as far along as we are now, but then again we could have saved all this trouble, and…"

"How about this," he murmurs, cutting her off, because he can see the agitation building behind her eyes. He takes both of her hands in his. "You focus on your show for these last three weeks. You go to rehearsals and kick ass, because you know Rachel Berry sure as hell deserves that part."

"You _know _I can do that." She nods and giggles, and his heart swells because _god_, he really has missed that sound.

His voice is softer when he speaks again. "And after the show closes, _then_ we'll start figuring stuff out, okay?"

She gazes down at their overlapping fingers, and traces the paths and creases in his palm while he talks, and she listens to him and re-memorizes his skin, thinking about how nice it is to be able to go over every inch and every detail of him.

"I can do that," she answers gently and nods again, a warm smile spreading over her lovely face.

He ghosts his lips over her cheek, not quite a kiss, but it still feels like it seals some sort of promise. He lowers himself back onto the couch, and she follows, her arms winding around him, her cheek nuzzling into the crook of his neck, both of them glad that there are at least some things, like this, that will always feel the same.

A week from that night, the night before her opening show, she joins him on the couch around two a.m., her whole body tense, shivering with excitement and anxiety in equal parts, and she whispers into the unlit space between them, "I'm scared." Her eyes are all he can see, gleaming from the light coming through the balcony window, finding his through the darkness in the room before she buries her face against his chest.

He wraps one arm around her, his fingers tracing a slow rhythm back and forth over her back. "I know, baby. But you're gonna be so good. You're gonna be perfect. The Rachel I know—she knows it too."

He feels her smile press into his chest; she nods her head, and they're silent after that. Not even twenty minutes later, he hears her quiet snoring, and he stifles his laughter and kisses her hair, quickly drifting off again.

And he's right. The next night, on that stage, her voice, her very being—she's perfect.

* * *

**TBC.**


End file.
